


Horny for DILFs in Tactical Boots

by DickBaggins



Category: Cable (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Boot Worship, Dry Orgasm, M/M, Mild Cock and Ball Torture, Mild Feminization, Sexual Fantasy, Telepathic Sex, Telepathy, telepathic dry orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:54:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26605570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DickBaggins/pseuds/DickBaggins
Summary: Frank punisher kneels down to polish his boyfriend's boots and busts a fat rope while doing it.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Nathan Summers
Comments: 9
Kudos: 39





	Horny for DILFs in Tactical Boots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inbox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/gifts).



> Hello I'm obsessed with this ship and owe my whole life and everything to [inbox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/pseuds/inbox) and [SenkoWakimarin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin), and this fic owes everything, including the title and entire summary, [to this post](https://stryfeposting.tumblr.com/post/628304017479680001/i-hate-it-here) from inbox, which I'm thinking of getting tattooed on my person somehow.

So it’s a warehouse. It’s one of those liminal spaces no one sees, a mid-century metal box near the old ferry terminal off Bay 44th, and it’s a good place for an ambush or an underground rave. 

Or a dirty fuck. 

Frank spent thirty minutes watching from his van, waiting for indications of action, of anything. It’s a limited view but seeing nothing is as good as seeing something. Nothing precludes the rave, the ambush. 

The third possibility nags at him as he approaches, tight to the wall, blackjack in his left fist. Well, not nags so much as pings around his brain like a spooked cat, clawing at the walls and yowling, now and then. 

Cable texted him coordinates for a dirty warehouse fuck. And it’s Frank’s own fault for not grilling him further, past the vague cryptic ‘you’ll see :)’. 

Hindsight, what the fuck else could this be? 

Frank half-relaxes, lets his breath out as he pushes on the metal door. It opens too quietly, not a creak. He squints at the dim yellow lighting, a third of a row of old overheads somehow still operational even though there’s half an inch of dust and dirt and rat shit on the floor. 

Filthy. 

If this is for a fuck, it’s not going to be on the ground, that’s for goddamn sure. Frank turns his nose up at it and continues in, hugging the wall, regulating his breath. 

Trying not to think about where else there is to get on his knees in this place, like that’s a given. There’s an upper floor, metal stairs and a catwalk leading to a box of an office. And there’s a soft glow from behind the vinyl slat blinds. 

And a second later, there’s a cold prickle up Frank’s neck and a heavy, comfortable weight pushing into his head, a smooth hum between his ears. 

_What is this?_ Frank thinks, and it’s quiet because he’s calm and ready, and thank fucking Christ he’s not still making a mental list of all the places to get railed in this old warehouse.

_Railed, I like that one_ , bounces back velvety and makes Frank shiver again. 

He’s used to the invasion and he’s not. He loves it and god, he hates it. He’s stopped against the wall, glaring up at the office where he knows Cable is, now. 

_It’s clear. Come up and see me._

Frank huffs out of his nose, slips the blackjack into his boot and thumps up the stairs. Not that it matters, announcing his arrival; he can feel Cable’s gaze on him the whole time. So yeah, he slows down, makes the walk to the little foreman’s office twice as long as it ought to be. So yeah, maybe it's to try and tame the anticipation squirreling around his guts and his balls too. Maybe a little bit for that. 

They usually fuck after jobs done together, don’t usually meet up for it specifically (except that one time and then that other time, and the handful of other one-off times that don’t mean anything in the grand scheme of things, Frank tells himself) and if they do (they don’t, except…) it’s somewhere passing for nice. Bars that Cable chooses, hotels that Cable chooses with shiny marble floor lobbies and mirrored elevators, or his place upstate the few times Frank’s stumbled his way there. This is out of the ordinary, if they even have an ordinary, which Frank thought they did. For a while, they did. 

He stops at the door, the grey industrial paint flaking off in big moth wings, the gold-sticker letters mostly worn off so there’s just an S and a crooked B hanging on for dear life. Just before he grasps at the knob, there’s 

_You have the knock_ , floating smug into his head. He can hear, feel the smile on Cable’s face.

“What the fuck,” he says, out loud, fingers already curled around the door knob. It gets his hackles up a few seconds, like there might be someone else in there.

And alright, he wouldn’t mind that too much; there’s a reel of jerkoff material that keeps getting longer and longer every time he uses it, where he’s on his knees or his back or his stomach and Cable’s there, the only person he can see fully realised, but others are there too. Behind him or inside of him, unloading on his upturned face or stepping on his nuts, all while Cable’s _there_ , showing him off like a prize. It’s thrilling while he’s squeezing at his dick in the shower and it’s mortifying when he’s not. 

_I’m alone_ , Cable clarifies, and Frank’s face heats up at the ever-amused tone. _It’s just that it’s polite to knock. Servants knock._

“I’m not a fucking-,” he spits, twists at the doorknob but it won’t budge, “servant, just open the door.”

_Aren’t you the boy they sent to shine up my brand new boots? No? That’s a shame. I asked for the prettiest, most pliant boy they had to come tend to me after these exertions._

He could’ve stopped at brand new boots and Frank would’ve been sold. Christ, he hopes they’re not that awful roller-rink blue or the even worse yellow. Imagine, being shackled by team colours when you’re gearing up. 

That he has _hopes_ about the _boots_ in the first place is a giveaway, even to himself. Adds an extra twinge of excitement and then there’s all the rest of this to unpack. A servant. Tending to Cable like he’s some kind of warlord.

The gentle hand on his wrist urges him away from the thoroughly locked doorknob and he sighs out of his nose and complies, knocking against the window. It rattles in it’s frame, any harder and it might’ve broken. Just that one act and the door unlocks - he hears it - and swings open slow-motion. 

It was an office, at one point; there’s a stain in the corner where the cigarette smoke hit a filing cabinet instead of a wall, a shadowy grey where everything else is yellow. And there’s a desk leftover too, particle board, and that’s as much of the room as Frank Castle registers.

On that desk, two big boots and thank fuck they’re black. There must be a chair too, from how Cable’s reclining, like he’s on his lunch break or some normie shit. Big, long body stretched out, legs crossed, arms behind his head.

The boots aren’t the only thing that’s new and as much as Frank wants to spend his entire time going over the nuances of those, there’s always Cable’s handsome face to consider, set in a smug look, his eyes, half-lidded, sweeping over Frank with a put-upon disinterest. His whole outfit - christ, Frank wishes he hadn’t thought of it like that, like a paper-doll for dress-up but it’s out of the bag now - is new, or at least something Frank hasn’t seen before. All black, a sleeveless shirt clinging to his chest, unzipped all the way down to his tac belt. How it stays on is some kind of mystery but Frank doesn’t much care. It’s showy two-ways, it’s got cleavage and his thick arms on full display. There’s a hood pooling on his shoulders and his back. Sleeveless _and_ hooded.

No logos either, which is nice. Frank might say he was working dark but the soles of his boots - Frank’s there again, skipping ahead - are relatively clean. 

The boots. Those lace up to his knees and look painfully new, still shiny. Frank feels his fingers twitch in want; they’ll probably be soft, when he brushes against them, soft and expensive and too precious to mark up with the dirty load he wants to spill on them. 

And he _knows_ Cable heard that but he’s got a good poker face. 

“They weren’t wrong,” he says, low and a little speculative, entrenched in whatever game this is today. “You must be the prettiest thing in the...whole...place.” he struggles a little at the end, and Frank only snorts a bit. “Come here, let me get a look.”

It’s achingly dutiful, Frank striding over, around the desk (not touching the boots even though he wants to already, so fucking bad, already drooling thinking about getting his hands his mouth his balls on them) and coming to parade rest in front of Cable. He gives Frank a slow up-and-down and an even slower back-up-again, his entire countenance bored or indifferent, his good eye the palest blue and the other pale yellow.

“Shirt off,” he commands, eyebrows shooting up when Frank doesn’t do it immediately.

He just wants, just a little, a sense of ground under his feet, a little understanding of what this is. 

“Don’t be so stubborn. Shirt, off.”

“I’ll do it if you give me two seconds brief on what the fuck we’re doing here.” Frank crosses his arms but there’s no threat in it, in anything he’s saying.

“That scowl of yours, Castle,” Cable laughs in a deep rumble, “It’s so adorable. New ensemble. I’m testing it out. I thought you’d like to see it and then I got to thinking about your whole thing. With the boots.”

“It’s not a _whole thing_.”

“It is. It’s a whole entire thing, Frank. Now, do you want to clean my boots like a good boy or not?”

God, does he. 

Frank doesn’t answer that but he does tug his shirt out of his black tac pants and up over his head, half-folding it and putting it neat on the desk in front of him, disarming at the same time.. Arms at his sides, he lowers his gaze, meaning to go eyes to the floor but they fall on those boots again.

His dumb dog brain can’t stop the fixation. The new _ensemble_ is perfectly stupid and if they hadn’t started knee-deep in this roleplay, he’d have a few things to say about it. Maybe he will, once this is over.

Cable hums. “Very nice. More than acceptable. Burly, in a word,” he says out loud.

But Frank hears _Tits_ in his head at the same time, louder than it ought to be, accompanied by barely strung-together images; Frank against the wall with Cable pressed against him, his big hands tugging hard on Frank’s nipples, then his mouth biting marks into the skin, and then Frank on the desk that absolutely would not support Cable straddling his torso and fucking his chest.

These are absolutely the wrong pants to get hard in; the thought hits Frank the second his dick starts chubbing up. The combination of moisture-wicking _everything_ and a comfortable amount of stretch seemed like the best plan going into this, back when he didn’t know it was just a dirty warehouse fuck and expected to have to engage in something physical. Something violent and physical. Something _more_ violent, anyway. 

All that moisture has to go somewhere and in a minute, there’s going to be a hell of a lot of it. 

Cable swings his legs off the desk and stands up with an interested look replacing the frost. Frank will never get tired of watching Cable bring himself up to his full height, lording the extra inches with all the confidence in the universe. It short circuits something in Frank’s brain, crosses some basic primal wires where _scary_ and _fuck me_ apparently coexist. 

This close, the _new ensemble_ is vaguely slutty, vacuum-packed to Cable all the way down. His pants aren’t much different from Frank’s own, just...tighter. Less pockets than usual, more streamlined. And he doesn’t _smell_ like testing it out involved anything beyond showering fresh and putting the new clothes on; Frank catches the spicy scent of aftershave and he’s a second away from dropping to his knees on the strength of that alone.

But.

“Mouth,” Cable says, and his living-metal hand comes up under Frank’s jaw, gentle but firm, insistent. 

Two things: Frank’s jaw unhinges on some kind of command even as his face sets into another scowl and his eyes dart away, and his dick throbs like a second heartbeat. 

It isn’t the warm metal pushing in, it’s the flesh-hand and Frank didn’t clock the black leather glove until it’s _there_ , pushing past his lips. It’s warm too, though. Two big fingers press against the inside of his cheek, over his tongue. The glove is soft, tastes like brand new leather, the expensive stuff, not like the gloves Frank used to get twenty for five bucks in the shady places under Canal street. Tailored too, perfectly fitted to Cable’s thick fingers.

Christ, the whole _ensemble_ must be thousands of dollars.

It’s an oddly thrilling thought, that Frank’s winding his tongue around something that pricey, that luxurious. Money’s barely something he ever considers but the high class goods and services he sometimes filches off people (people he’s fucking, usually) are undeniably enjoyable. High thread count sheets. Black marble showers that take up half a high rise hotel bathroom. 

Now, this. 

Now, the third finger, already drool-covered, shoving in and all the fingers tenting like a claw, pushing and _pushing_ until his mouth feels like it’s gonna tear at the corners, and Cable’s hot gaze on him, radiating something like prideful awe at the work Frank’s doing sucking at him. 

“This _mouth_ ,” he grumbles, slipping fingers out and plucking at Frank’s bottom lip with his forefinger and thumb, “As industrious as the rest of you, looks like.”

A few shared thoughts land in Frank’s brain, straight from Cable, and it’s all usually more put together than what he’s been beaming out but Frank doesn’t quite give a fuck. It’s the sight of himself through Cable’s vision first, back straight, mouth sore and stretched open and a look that he’s sure has to be somehow augmented by Cable; there’s no way he looks that pleading and soft, not when he’d been scowling before. But the image glitters bright hot around the edges before it flips over to another, predictably Frank on his knees and Cable hilted in his throat. The choke of it’s so real and big and sudden that Frank coughs, feeling his throat bulge out from the slide and the heavy weight on his tongue, the taste, oh _god._

Then Cable’s pushing fingers into his mouth again, the gloves catching leather on his sharp teeth, curling against the back of his tongue. 

And in his head and Cable’s, he’s still on his knees and there’s someone watching - no, no, there’s a lot of people watching. There’s a room with shadows lining the walls and they’re all _people watching_ Cable fuck his mouth and choke on it. Cable doesn’t even finish before someone else lines up, and someone else and someone else, and it stretches on forever and ever, it seems. 

_How many_ , Frank tries to throw back not-so-loud and not so invested.

“Don’t worry about it,” Cable says, still concentrating on his mouth with a sharp eye that Frank’s finding it increasingly impossible to look away from, even as Cable edges closer to lick at the corner of his dark pink lips. “If you did a good job with that workhorse mouth, I’d fuck you while they lined up for it. Do a good job on my boots, and we can make that happen. I’m a proponent of upward mobility, so you’ve got the chance to go from silly little boot boy to wife fairly quickly. On merit.”

Frank half-hears it over the scene he’s entrenched in. It’s gaudy, some kind of b-movie throne room, some rain-delay afternoon flick you watch out of sheer boredom. It’s _that_ , big chunky wooden furniture and rough-hewn walls and he’s in the center of it all, sweating and naked in front of a _court_ , oh christ, it’s the worst. He’s up on some splintery bench, wide like it’s been designed expressly for fucking, and there’s one dick in his mouth, yeah, but there’s two more rubbing on each side of his face and it doesn’t even matter who they’re attached to. 

He’s barely paying attention to that anyway: the fantasy-Cable in whatever warlord bullshit they’re tits-deep in now, that Cable is fucking the breath out of him from behind. He feels it, like he’s really split-open and the right kind of loose, like Cable’s been going at it for a while. When he chokes down a fresh load in his mouth, Cable wraps the living-metal-arm around his neck and tugs him up, squeezes him so hard he can’t swallow, and the cum coughs out obscenely, dripping down his chin. Then Cable chokes his _dick_ with the same otherworldly hand, ringing it so hard Frank’s eyes roll back.

There, and he feels it _here_. 

“Spoils of war,” Cable tells him, “Means I get to fuck my pretty new princess wife wherever and however I want.”

Frank goddamn knows that’s not what that means at all but Cable kisses him after, the same way he always kisses him. Like he doesn't want to be doing anything else in the world but kissing Frank hard like this. And the drool-dripping glove moulds around his chest, pulls at his nipple so hard his dick throbs. And the _other_ thing is still happening, the medium-budget porn; there, Cable’s fucking him deep so he sees stars, so his cock pulses against the tight grip.

It doesn’t matter if he’s there or here or nowhere, Frank groans into Cable’s mouth (or into the air) and he cums but he doesn’t, for sure it happens but also _nothing_ happens. 

He grabs for Cable, digs into his shoulder and his chest with his hands that, without instruction until now, have been obediently straight at his sides. He grabs and feels for the first time the tight black material that Cable’s cleavage has been straining against this whole time. It’s impossibly soft, warm, bumpy where Frank finds his nipple and palms.

The movie in his head skips and stops.

Frank’s only half-relieved but seizes the opportunity to rut up against Cable’s thigh, tac pants making a quiet _zip-zip_.

“ _Oath_ , Frank, you’re dripping. These pants are... _And_ the top. Hmm.”

Frank huffs quietly, a little offended Cable pulled back from tonguing his mouth to say _that_. “What.”

Cable hums again and shoves his big thigh further up against Frank’s crotch, humming again when Frank claims all that new real estate with blind greed. “They’re - supposedly - something like heat-sensitive. Heat-sensing? Temperature...something. Space tech sensing material or whatever. I’m just saying. I can feel that leak you’re running. And these may be unsuitable for most jobs because this - “ he slides his big hand over Frank’s on his chest, pressing Frank’s crooked blunt fingers harder against the swell of his pec, “This feels incredible.”

Frank half-laughs, mostly a huff of air out his nose, and squeezes harder onto Cable’s chest. “You usually let yourself get groped at work, Summers?”

“Depends,” Cable says in a soft exhale, and Frank knows exactly what he means. 

“Wear ‘em for me then,” Frank suggests, flippantly. It’s not though. This fucking outfit. His other hand reaches down for Cable’s ass, sliding against the equally sumptuous material of the pants and he can feel so much body heat through them, whatever junk science Cable babbled about before makes some kinda sense. “Stupid that it’s got no sleeves and a hood though. What if it rains? Stupid.”

“You want to dress me up then, hm? Sleeves? Just so you can maintain some attempt at modest thoughts?”

“No, so you don’t get soaked when you get caught in some dumb fuck jungle monsoon.”

“Soaked,” Cable repeats back, the mocking edge nothing but sweet. 

It still pinks up Frank’s face. Stupid. 

“Yeah, well. Guy lives out some delusional warlord fantasy on me, ruins my nut, it’s gonna happen. You kinda lost the plot, huh?”

“Worth it,” Cable grumbles and kisses him again like he’s sweet, but the metal hand shoving between them and gripping hard at Frank’s balls says something else. He herds Frank back against the wall, flat, and squeezes. “So, where was I? Talking about your mouth, right? Seems very ready for whatever I want. How’s your balls though?”

Just the slightest twist has Frank panting, obedient-dumb hands balled at his sides again. This stupid material on his pants, that fucking 1% of spandex or elastine or _whatever_ lets his cock tent them out and throb however, containing him more like a comforting hand than a scratchy pair of army surplus tac pants. He’s definitely going back to the rougher ones. Definitely. 

“Full,” Cable muses, “Hmm? That’s how they should be. Full and ready to spill at my leisure.”

The rational part of Frank that snickers over that is so, so far away that it barely registers how fucking stupid it is. All that’s left is this _other_ part, grimy and desperate, that makes him nod and say, “Yeah, yeah,” through clenched teeth. 

It _is_ true, however stupid it sounds verbalized. It’s true and it’s stupid and hot all at the same even stupider time. 

“Good,” Cable smiles pleasantly and inelegantly sits back down in the rickety office chair that really shouldn’t support all that bulk. It doesn’t topple even when he leans all the way back and raises his right leg. The boot’s black sole is nearly pristine but, “Let me just wipe these off before I get you on your knees,” and he plants it on Frank’s thigh. 

Frank stands still there, back against the wall, hands at his sides. Like a good, obedient boy, intrinsically knowing the instructions without being told. His dick’s still heartbeat-throbbing against the stretch of the pants but he watches Cable wipe his boot slow down his thigh, and then up again, achingly close. The pressure might as well be on his dick anyway for how it feels, how it sends his breath racing. 

His fingers itch to grab hold, to feel the soft shiny black leather swaddling Cable’s thick calves, and to push his foot to just the right place. 

Cable must know what he wants; Frank feels like he’s radiating it to any unfortunate telepath in a hundred mile radius, but he waits for the left boot to give in. Heel on Frank’s balls, foot pressing against his shaft. 

“Almost done,” he smiles still, ignoring Frank arching up against the pressure. He wipes the sole up and down, slow and firm and Frank can’t fucking breathe for the long moment before he feels Cable nudge back fully into his head. 

_Do you want to get off like this?_ And a whirlwind of taut-strung bursts of nothing more than feeling where he does get off, like this, where he’s watching from Cable’s angle while he pants and yowls and humps at the air, and the dark wet spot on his tac pants spreads and spreads. 

He does. Of course he does. He nods, that desperate clipped thing again. 

_Or this?_ And that is a fast-forward sneak-peek of Frank finally, finally on his knees in front of Cable in that chair, but it looks more like a throne in this rose-gold vision, the fantasy Cable’s still nursing for them. In it, Frank’s not naked yet, just stripped down to his underwear and rutting senselessly against Cable’s boot, so wet he’s leaving streaks. 

That one’s pretty fucking good too. 

Frank nods again, reaching down for the toecap of Cable’s boot, curling his hand around it to press himself more firmly there. Hell, he’ll get off like this if Cable keeps the porn coming. 

Cable lets him do it with a dangerous shine in his good eye, lets Frank dumb-dog hump the sole. He even presses back and Frank sighs against it, the increased contact harder than ever, so so good. Maybe he will get off like this. Yeah, he will, he’s going to, he’s _actually_ going to - 

Shit, he really is. There’s fire in his gut and his cock throbs relentlessly against the crush of Cable’s (gorgeous soft hard perfect huge) boot. He’s there, static in his ears and his eyes squeezed shut and Frank is certain he’s going to bust in his pants and he doesn’t even care, he wants it, he wants it so bad - 

Then that vice again, torturously tight and it doesn’t happen, doesn’t/does. His dick jerks like it does, his brain shorts out like it does, the tendons in his leg jump like he does. 

Through the static, he just hears, _knees_ , hears it inside and out in a voice like a boom. There’s no bargaining with it and Frank’s down on his knees while he’s still catching his breath.

“Not that easy. You need to put in some real work. Pants down, please,” Cable says, planting both his feet on the floor to either side of Frank. He looks monstrously huge like this, looking down with that fierce hungry gaze, leaning back and adjusting his weight, popping the release on his belt and then the pants. Waiting, eyebrows raised, for Frank to do the same. 

It’s somehow far more demeaning to already be on his knees and taking his pants off; he can’t do much more than unbuckle, unbutton, unzip, shove them down around his knees and sink into the fire heating up his face at the way Cable watches all of that. 

Normally, he’s better prepared for a fight, jock and cup or something like that but these tight ass boxer-briefs came ten for fifteen dollars at Costco and he’s determined to get his money’s worth from them, even though they aren’t the usual; they cut high into his thighs but don’t dig, sit low on his hips and tent out with obscene softness at any sign of being hard. And, when he’s dripping like a fucking tap, they turn into the best under the pants over the panties handy material he’s ever felt. 

“Look at those,” Cable breaths out, nudging the hard bulge of Frank’s erection with the toe of his left boot. “You knew you’d end up with your pants down, hm? Knew I’d wanna look.”

He wants to deny it, but Cable’s already flipped back to Frank getting dressed for this, to the brief moment he spent looking in a dusty mirror at the way the tight boxer-briefs made his ass look. In bits and pieces, Frank can acknowledge some semblance of attractiveness. Bits and pieces for the consumption of others only, and that was one. 

Frank tries to move against the boot but doesn’t get very far; Cable pushes back and stares down dreamily. 

“The best part of those, is how slick they get when they’re soaked. I can see it from here. I’ll be honest, I was going for a classic spit-shine but I’m getting other ideas.”

Frank gives in to impulse and wraps his hands around the boots, hard callouses running up and down the leather, all the way to Cable’s knee and down again and they’re such a fucking masterpiece, glove-fit to perfection. He hasn't said anything in a while, hasn't wanted or needed to and there’s still nothing now. He just wants, he wants whatever Cable wants and he wants to get off for real too, finally. 

“I’ll do it,” he manages, his voice scraping rough. “However you want, just - lemme cum.”

“You know I will.” It’s underscored by Cable getting his dick out of his pants and that’s always such a sight. On its own, gorgeous, but coupled with the look he’s levelling down on Frank, single-minded and starving, Frank’s drooling.

There’s an _actual_ flood of saliva to his mouth, a reflexive swallow. He’s trained, he’s a very well trained dog, even if he is humping Cable’s leather-swaddled leg and reaching his greedy hands up his thighs. Jesus, those pants are painted on; now that he’s here on the floor he can really get a sense for how tight they are, how utterly custom fit. And he just tugged his dick out of them, no fishing around or shoving things out of the way, and if Frank has even half a brain cell left after this he’s going to ask about that. 

“Everyone watching,” Cable says, like it’s a reminder to the half-baked fantasy porno he’s still going along with and Frank nearly laughs at it (third or fourth time, very uncouth) until it forms real and warm in his brain. Cable on his stupid imposing throne and Frank, silly little boy, here to polish his boots and way too into his job, at his feet on some animal skin rug. The vague court’s still gathered there in the shadows, holding up the walls, making the walls, and Frank’s glad they’re back to that for a second. The nameless faceless throngs of dicks are good too but Cable’s gaze, and his grip on his pretty dick make it impossible to think on anything else. The pervasive threat of _everyone watching_ is good enough for Frank to growl out in a whine and hold a sharp thrust against the inside of Cable’s calf. 

“Everyone watching how greedy you are for my dick. _And_ how desperate you are to nut off on my leg - sorry, my _boot_. You don’t mind?”

“No,” Frank says, immediate and sharp, his hands reaching higher up Cable’s thigh, pressing his chest against his leg too, full-body contact the only way he’s going to get where he needs to be. “Let ‘em see. Want ‘em to.”

“Bright Lady,” Cable swears under his breath, free hand tucking under Frank’s chin to tilt his head up, while his other hand strokes faster at his own cock, just out of reach. “Definitely in line for a promotion with that selfless attitude. Beautiful.”

Frank knows he’s nothing like that but hearing it, hearing it is nice from Cable. The way he says it, the look, the sweet tug of his fingers under Frank’s chin. It’s lush and soothing and he never has anything to say back. Good dog, he just opens his mouth and his tongue hangs out.

“I’ll wife you tonight if you keep looking at me like that. Here,” Cable moves, shifts so Frank can hump his leg ( _good boy_ keeps floating into Frank’s head in Cable’s low tone) and suck his dick at the same time, although the latter is entirely at Cable’s leisure. 

Frank wants all of it at once, always, but Cable parcels it out like a tyrant. He pushes just the head, sweetly leaking, perfect pink, against Frank’s outstretched tongue and slides side to side. Frank _tries_ for more, tries wriggling his wet tongue around to cradle him, to lick at his slit but Cable sighs soft and plucks his tongue between his thumb and his index finger, keeping Frank still. 

“Now, concentrate. Are you even shining my boots?”

Frank huffs, means to nod but he can’t. He _can_ drag his dick hard up and down the soft leather boot though, so wet he can feel it drip down his aching shaft. There’s wet smears on the boot, squelching when he moves, when he clamps his thighs around the huge muscled leg. _That_ , _this_ , this will be enough to cum, when he’s finally allowed.

“Messy thing,” Cable says, and it’s not just about Frank’s faucet of a dick; he’s drooling out of his mouth in earnest now, getting it on Cable’s glove and his own chin, on Cable’s perfect dick. He finally lets his hand off Frank’s tongue and rocks his hips closer and Frank instinctively closes his mouth around what’s given, the head and the tight furl of his foreskin, an inch or two or three of shaft. 

He already/always wants more but the angle’s wrong; the angle’s for his greedy dick humping off on the hitherto pristine leather. Lose that and the whole operation falls apart. But Cable’s dick has him drooling too and there’s that nasty bit of pride that always makes him want to swallow him whole. Frustrating. 

“The boots are always more important,” Cable tells him, a hint of solemnity in it even as his hips hitch and shove more dick in Frank’s mouth. He grits his teeth to speak, lets it come out rough and low. “That’s your job, remember?”

Well, Frank wasn’t the one who cooked all that up so he vacilates between _fuck you_ and _yessir_ and from Cable’s chuckle, he picks up on both. 

“I appreciate the generous attitude, boy. Maybe I can work something out,” Cable says, he says it but he doesn’t move to change a thing. His gaze focuses hard and Frank stares back. 

Frank's tongue does a lot of work, has to like this when there’s barely enough dick notched in his mouth to even hollow out his cheeks. It’s still a lot, proverbial mouthful with a good two-thirds left unhilted and Frank wants it so goddamn bad but Cable’s just _staring_ , just looking for too-long moments. 

Frank feels him nudge back into his brain in a pleasant shiver and everything overlaps and happens in stereo. Cable throws his own experience, his own point of view into Frank’s head and it’s overwhelming and goddamn crazy like this. Feeling Cable’s pretty dick in his mouth and feeling him feeling it, _seeing it_ , how dirty and degraded the whole thing is. Frank sees himself on his knees, a stupid dog, a silly little boy humping at his master’s boot and smearing it up wet. Christ almighty, he doesn’t even have his pants off he’s that desperate for it, straining his neck to get more dick. 

He whines, dog-dumb and the noise reverbs in his head and it’s so disgusting, the lengths he’ll go to to beg for this, to get off, to get Cable off at the same time, there’s nothing he wouldn’t do, no dirty floor he wouldn’t kneel on, not even with a crowd. Jesus fuck, he’d do it on a streetcorner, he’d do it for cameras, he’d - 

The feedback loop cuts out and Cable stands up with a grunt and he’s huge, _huge_ , scary big and designed to be dangerous but here’s Frank Castle, silently begging for more, begging to get crushed/choked/ruined. He grabs for Cable’s dick, doesn’t want to let it get very far at all anymore (or ever) and blinks up, doesn’t move, waits for the instructions. 

Cable manhandles him better than anyone. Cable knows what he wants from all the deepdark places in his brain. Cable goes for Frank’s thick throat with his metal hand and wrenches him up higher on his knees and prods his mouth open again with the leather glove. All while he shoves a leg back between Frank’s legs, hard enough that Frank gasps at the sensation and his dick weeps even more. 

The angle _is_ better; Cable opens Frank’s mouth himself, slides his cock in slow and leaves it there, sighing while the fat length bumps at the roof of Frank’s mouth, at the sensitive back of his throat. 

“There. What you wanted, isn’t it?” 

The appraising look sends Frank moaning against the thick shaft, his hands gripping Cable’s thighs, digging into the huge muscles and the soft, stretchy fabric. Can’t talk, doesn’t even want to but the most gone, obedient part of his brain supplies _yessir thank you sir_.

Cable swears under his breath, one of those quaint ethereal curses, and he starts rocking into Frank’s mouth with another epithet. Slow, huge, Frank doesn’t care if he chokes. Cable nudges at his balls with the toe of his boot, shoves them up hard and Frank huffs out of his nose. 

And finally, unexpected but so relieving, “Get your dick out, let me see.”

The angle has Frank jammed up against Cable’s boot-laces but he complies anyway, one-handing his tight underwear down so his angry-hard dick thumps out, too hot for the air to even cool the mess he’s been dripping down his shaft. He dares to take it in his fist and give it a few choking strokes, shuddering at the feeling he’s been chasing for long, long minutes. 

He doesn’t break from Cable’s gaze, watches him watch Frank stroke and resume the mindless humping with such a look. Frank doesn’t have time to sift through all that’s there in Cable’s good eye, in the hungry expression. Doesn’t have time to put words to things like the squirming in his belly or the baby bird flutter in his heartbeat. 

Maybe later, later, when there aren’t so many other things to focus on. Later, alone, in the dark, he can think on it until he’s tired and achy inside, in parts of him where things don’t usually reach, and then dismiss it like usual. It’s not worth thinking about in the long term, it’s not worth considering anything more than how hard Cable makes him cum. 

Thankfully, Cable has the good sense to gloss over all of that for now, hopefully forever, although Frank catalogs an amused glint in his pale blue eye. The augmented one’s flaring buttery yellow, fighting with the too-blue overhead and Frank knows which one he likes better, that’s for goddamn sure. 

The laces of the boots are the weirdest, best texture against the heat of Frank’s aching cock. And he knows he’s going to mess them up. He knows and he knows Cable knows. 

“You can just clean them up again,” Cable chuckles, toeing at Frank’s balls again. “Self-fulfilling prophecy.”

Whatever the fuck that means. 

Frank might glare, ordinarily, but he can barely fucking breathe. There’s a phantom hand nudging at his where it’s tight around his dick, trying to lift his fingers and claim it on his own and Frank lets him do that. Frank lets Cable stretch his mouth obscenely, shoving two leather-clad fingers in alongside his thick cock until the corners of his mouth pull too tight. It’s all so much.

The unseen hand presses his throbbing cock hard against Cable’s boot-laces, letting them ripple and ridge up against his oversensitive skin. He grips back onto Cable’s thigh with one hand and curls his fingers around the shiny, warm metal wrist where Cable’s still gripping his throat and those fingers tighten around his neck, force him to constrict and then there’s his dickhead shoving at the clench of his throat too.

So much happening. All Frank’s thinking is _pleaseyesmore_ on a desperate loop and that’s all he’s getting back, too; his own begs and Cable’s, a ridiculous chorus until everything whites out sharp and hard.

It’s half a blunt kick to Frank’s balls that gets him; his stomach drops and his whole body goes hot, like he’s halfway to being sick but instead of that, his thighs tighten around Cable’s boot - big new shinywet Frank’s job Frank’s _new job_ \- and he blows at the top of a jerky thrust, right on Cable’s calf and the tight laces, every ridge making his cock throb even harder in release. 

“Good, good,” Cable pants and the same floats wordlessly into Frank’s brain, _good goodboy good_ , while Cable chokes him with his cock and tugs his fingers out of his mouth, shoving them through Frank’s slightly overgrown hair instead. He pulls on the messy curls until Frank’s eyes water and he’s leaking everywhere he should be; eyes, mouth, dick. Frank’s a mess.

And Cable only adds to it; he grunts, shoves, nuts half down Frank’s throat and half on his tongue, a little on his mouth like he can’t help it, staring intense and intent while his cum mixes with Frank’s drool, rubbing his head against Frank’s sore, used up mouth. His big body shudders like he’ll give out but Frank knows better; there’s still pressure on his spent dick anyway, the laces scratching now, making him shudder still. 

“Oath, Frank, you look - “ He trails off and Frank averts his eyes, huffs through his nose and tries to turn away; the hands won’t let him, not this time. 

“Disgusting, yeah. Fuckin’ mess,” Frank supplies, even though it hurts a little to talk, especially through the grip still ringing his neck. He licks up what he can, swallows, does it all quick. He squeezes the living-metal wrist and dares his gaze to Cable’s again, blinking slow. “C’mon, lemme up.”

Cable grunts again, satisfied, and sits down heavily in the chair. His dick falls, just softening, against the undone parts of his pants and after a moment, wherein Frank knows he ought to be getting his shit together and not just staring up at the goddamn show that is Cable, after a moment he folds his hands across his stomach and smiles down. 

“You are absolutely promoted from lowly boot-shine boy to my beautiful princess, Castle. Effective immediately.”

“Jesus christ, shut the fuck up,” Frank grumbles, sitting back on his heels. The wet mess of his cum - and precum - catches his eye. Ground into the laces and smeared across the inside of the boots, disgusting in a few minutes when it’ll start flaking up and he fights with the urge to clean it up, hating how spot-on Cable is about the whole…thing. The boot thing. Jesus, it _is_ a whole thing. 

“Not off the hook yet,” Cable says, cheerfully. “Better find something to clean this up with. Oh, idea.” He bends down, hands under Frank’s arms, tugging him up. “Take off those panties you ruined. We’ll use those.”

“They’re not - jesus,” Frank mutters, stumbling to his feet. One knee pops and he groans a little. He’s still too dressed to get them off easy, but Cable insists. Strange feeling, having already blown and standing naked in front of a fully-dressed Cable, holding his own sodden underwear. He’s not particularly careful about the cleaning job; it’s impossible without tools, without unlacing, to get into all the nooks and crannies he spent on but for the most part, he does his job. 

“That’s right, your job,” Cable laughs, and it’s not unkind. He takes the ruined underwear, folds them up and shoves them away in one of the fold-over pockets in his pants. He winks. It’s awful. “Good luck charm _and_ a new boot-rag. Win-win.”

Frank stands again, ignoring all of that. Most of it. Some of it, as much as he can, but other parts of him flush red about it and he can still feel his heartbeat in his dick, residual from those two absurd dry-cums before. “Is this outfit gonna be in the regular rotation or what’s the deal here?” 

Frank turns around and starts dressing again; freeballing in these pants isn’t ideal but he doesn’t have far to go home. He’s trying not to fixate on the _outfit_ , how Cable’s oddly matches his.

“I think so. You liked it, so it passed the test.”

Frank snorts, tugging his shirt back on, readjusting his loadout. “I think it’s fucking stupid,” he starts, but when he turns around and his eyes fall immediately to Cable’s clevage, it’s hard to bluff on how much he really does like it. “No sleeves, again, stupid.”

Cable shrugs, finally tucking his dick away while Frank watches. “I don’t like to be constrained.”

“How come you’re freeballing?”

“Oh, the tailor suggested some integrated support,” Cable rattles off, standing up big, stretching so his fingertips brush the ceiling and he lets out a satisfied sigh. “After they took my inseam, you know? There was a lot of measuring involved but it’s worth it. Very comfortable.”

“They suggest the boots too?” Frank lets himself look at Cable’s long body, lets himself stare and rake down to the boots again.

“No,” Cable croons, two big steps bringing up right up against Frank. One arm around his waist and the other up onto his cheek, disgustingly tender for whatever just happened. “That was your suggestion, whether you’ll cop to it or not.”

Frank doesn’t say a word, just scowls and tilts his head up, asking for a kiss without words. Cable grants it to him as ever, no less hungry now that they’ve fucked around. 

“Such a good boy with my _very_ expensive boots,” Cable says, too-soft against Frank’s mouth. “I was right to ask for the bustiest, prettiest - “

“Oh my god, put that to fuckin’ bed,” Frank tries mean but it sputters into laughter as he squirms out of Cable’s arms. “What B-movie did you fall asleep watching with your hand on your dick last night? Jesus.”

Cable laughs too, following him out the door, onto the metal catwalk. “I can’t remember what it was called. Terrible sets, very skimpy costumes. I’m not entirely sure it wasn’t a porno.”

“It sounds like it was.”

“No one had tits like yours though. Not even the prettiest girl. Fur and leather bikinis.”

“Didn’t get any new costume ideas from that, huh?” The rickety old stairs creak under the weight of both of them and Frank is keenly aware of the heat of Cable so close behind him.

“Maybe. Maybe some for you.”

Frank’s glad he’s in front of Cable for that one, although from the frisson in his head, the usual mix of pleasure and mortification is evident and amusing. He clears his throat and pushes out the door into the bright day and once Cable’s out, a lock clicks on the heavy door. Frank raises his eyebrows.

“Safe place. Not a safe-house, exactly. I sometimes bodyslide to the office there, depending on circumstances. Med kits in the desk drawers. You’re the only one I’ve had up there, though.”

Frank grunts in response, doesn’t much care either way. “Guessing you don’t need a ride.”

Cable shrugs, looks around the empty complex of equally empty warehouses and then back to Frank. “I guess not. But it might get awkward, landing in your place before you get there. I wouldn’t mind the drive.”

Frank doesn’t usually extend invitations. Things just happen and sometimes those things end up at his current place, the four floor walkup in Gravesend. Sometimes they happen in the infinitely scrubbable back of his van. Sometimes, apparently, they happen in disused factory offices. There’s rarely a second location. He doesn’t mean to get a dumb smile on about it but it’s there. 

“Fine by me. No plans,” Frank says instead of explaining the warmth in his cheeks or the rumble of interest in his gut, in his balls, at Cable coming over. 

The drive is surprisingly nice with company and on this kind of day, Frank can quietly, barely, admit to himself that maybe a lot of things are nice with the right kind of company. 


End file.
